


Corps-à-corps

by orphan_account



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Not Related, F/F, Pining, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-18
Updated: 2010-07-18
Packaged: 2017-11-16 23:06:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/544827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern AU. The joys of fencing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Corps-à-corps

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted [here.](http://community.livejournal.com/kinkme_merlin/6914.html?thread=11237890#t11237890)

Her feet skimmed the covered floor, light as pebbles tossed across the surface of a lake, a different, more deadly grace than any dance instructor’s. “Come to me,” she said, and though her face was obscured by her mesh mask, Morgana could easily picture the smile she knew was hidden under there, playing across her lips. Morgause was not prone to effusions of joy, but anyone with eyes could see that fencing was her passion.

Cursing under her breath was a waste of energy but Morgana found herself doing it anyway. She knew she was not even close to Morgause’s skill level; she was toying with her as a cat plays with a mouse. Yet it was not malicious, and Morgana came away from each lesson with more knowledge, more skill, teaching her body to memorise these movements through sheer determination.

Morgana darted forward and attacked in hope of penetrating Morgause’s guard; she parried, her sword arm a striking snake, and followed through with a riposte. Morgana’s hands had been sweating inside their gloves since the second bout, and to her mortification she dropped her épée. Meanwhile, Morgause landed a touch just beneath Morgana’s left ribcage, hard enough for her to feel it through the material. She hissed, displeased.

“Halt.” Morgause’s sword arm dropped to her side, and she took off her mask. Her hair, kept out of her way in a bun, remained intact, but a few loose tendrils clung to the damp skin on her face. “You rushed that last attack. When attacking in épée, you must be prepared and alert for counterattacks at all times.” She smiled suddenly, and it transformed her. “Do you regret asking to transition from sabres?”

“It’s more difficult than I expected.” Morgana frowned. “You said I was doing well, earlier. I’d thought I would be better than this.”

Morgause laughed. “Your main mistake was coming close enough to engage. You should wait your opponent out, stay on the defensive. Wait for them to tire, become impatient, then go in for the kill. An épée is heavier than a foil or sabre, and your whole body is a target; while your footwork is good, and you are fast, you still lack upper body strength.” She said more kindly, in her low, clear voice, “You say you’ve not had formal lessons for years? You have made remarkable progress in such a short period of time.”

It was so unfair. Morgause was older, and beautiful and strong, with fascinating scars on her body. Morgana had caught glimpses of them in the corner of her eyes when they changed together, wanted to go over each and every one of them, hear their stories. She was pleased with the compliment, however, and knew that Morgause would not lie to her. Receiving no praise would always be preferable to false praise.

Abashed, Morgana lowered her eyes. Her face felt hot, and not only from exertion. Unconsciously, she pressed her hand against the spot where Morgause’s épée had touched her. In an instant, Morgause was in front of her, looking concerned. She had dropped her weapon, heedless of damage.

Looking into Morgana’s face with great dark eyes, she said, “Did that hurt? I did not mean to strike you so hard.” She stripped off her glove and pressed her bare hand over Morgana’s gloved one, a gentle pressure. Morgana stared down, entranced. Even through the layers of reinforced protective gear, Morgause's touch burnt her like a brand.

“No, no. I’m all right.” She licked her dry lips. Warmth radiated from Morgause, she smelt of fresh sweat and leather. Morgana was abruptly reminded of last week’s lesson, when, frustrated by a tedious party her parents had made her attend, she had attacked Morgause furiously and without relent. They collided bodily more than once. The sound of Morgause’s breath being expelled, her soft sound of surprise woke something in Morgana, and it stretched and stirred, restless. The look of admiration Morgause had given her after filled her with some strange feeling. She wanted to see it again.

“If you’re sure. Let’s work on your technique.”

Going through movements, listening to Morgause’s murmuring voice, Morgana felt herself fall into a trance-like state. They had moved off the fencing strip and now stood in front of the mirrored wall. She watched their reflection; she liked the way they looked together, the contrast – her own dark hair against pristine white, Morgause’s pale gold against her black instructor’s garb.

She circled Morgana, leaning in then and again to correct her form. After ten minutes, Morgause stopped her, said it was time for Morgana to cool down.

“And what about you?” said Morgana.

Morgause blinked. “I had planned to practise for a while longer. I am performing a demonstration next week.” She tilted her head to the side. “You may watch if you promise to stretch at the same time.”

Morgana agreed and watched as Morgause discarded her other glove, gauntlets, jacket, plastron, and chest protector, until she was only wearing a white singlet with the bottom half of her uniform. The singlet was damp with sweat between her shoulder blades, half-transparent. Heavy-lidded, Morgana watched Morgause lunge and retreat, fight against invisible foes. The long, lean muscles in her back and arms shifted beneath her skin with each fluid movement. The late afternoon sunlight streamed through the window and kissed her blade, struck dust motes until they dazzled the eye.

  



End file.
